A Shared Confidence (6 page)

Nathan had always been serious-minded even as a boy. He did well in school and rarely caused any trouble at home. I did okay with the books myself, but as for causing trouble, I was often accused of trying to carry Nathan's load as well as mine. I wasn't a bad kid, really, but when you have a perfect older brother, even your small sins tend to stand out in sharp relief. Nathan was no saint, of course, though as a boy he had briefly considered entering the priesthood. When he was told that the most important attributes for a priest were faith, fidelity, and compassion – attributes that were impossible to quantify and therefore easily fudged to Nathan's way of thinking – the job lost its appeal. Or was it that priests were expected to spend a significant portion of their time listening to people confess to wrongdoing without laying into them for their weakness and stupidity? Either way, the Church dodged a bullet there if you ask me.

It wasn't like I grew up jealous of Nathan. Far from it. I certainly never wanted to be like him. Nathan knew from a young age what kind of life he wanted. He knew before he started high school where he wanted to go to college, what kind of girl he wanted to marry, what trade he wanted to work in. He seemed to have his future all worked out, which was great for him but would have put me in a rubber room. I think moving around to different homes and different schools, seeing the parade of Mom and Dad's slightly eccentric friends and neighbors, instilled in my brother a strong desire for a more solid, stable life. Me, I kind of like moving onto someplace new before I get tired of where I'm at, meeting interesting people here and there. And I've never been able to say with any degree of certainty what I'll be doing the following year. There was never any bad blood between Nathan and me; we're just different people. And our parents loved us both the same (which, I always suspected, rankled Nathan at times, their failing to take a stronger parental pride in his more stalwart nature).

I finished eating, washed and rinsed the dishes, then took the steel lid off the percolator and spooned in some coffee. Once the boiling and bubbling started, I went to fetch a cup, noting the time on the kitchen clock. I wanted to wait to call Nathan until I was sure they'd had dinner and the kids were likely in bed, though not past what I guessed Nathan's own bedtime to be (which probably didn't give me a very large window). Eight o'clock should do it; it'd be nine in Baltimore.

When the coffee was ready, I poured a cup and took it into the living room, turning on the radio and listening to the news for a few minutes. A commentator was throwing in his two cents about Hitler re-arming Germany in direct violation of the Treaty at Versailles and how we couldn't let him get away with it. So what do we do about it, pal? I wondered. Start another war? Peace treaties are basically agreements where the losing side is forced to agree. It's no great surprise that the coerced will try to break that agreement as soon as they're able. Unless you're ready to force their hand, it comes down to a game of “Or else what?” Historians will tell you that the end of each war seems to lead into the next, and I have no doubt they're right. I just hope I'm too old to serve before the next one breaks out.

I switched off the radio, picked up the novel I was reading, and sat down on the divan. After thirty pages and two cigarettes, I refilled my coffee cup and picked up the telephone. I gave the exchange and waited while the long-distance operator connected me.

“Caine residence. Nathan Caine speaking.” I almost mouthed it with him, then let the operator announce me.

“Hello, Nathan.”

“Dev! Thank you for calling. You got my telegram?” We were both speaking loudly through the thousand miles of copper wire, pausing for the delays so as not to talk over one another.

“Yes, I got it this morning. What's up?”

“To tell you the truth, I'm not quite certain where to start.” This wasn't the Nathan I knew. Must be a hell of a problem.

“Just pick a place and jump in,” I advised. “I'll stop you if I need to.”

Nathan informed me that he'd received an important promotion last November. He was now Vice President of the department that oversaw loans to small businesses. We were being charged by the minute for this conversation, but Nathan still graciously allowed a brief pause so I could congratulate him. He went on to explain that earlier this week he'd been going over the books on various loans open in his department and was having a difficult time getting the numbers to balance. After starting over and going through them several different ways, he was forced to acknowledge that some money was missing. A lot of money.

“I see.” I could sense Nathan didn't want to use a word like “embezzlement” on the telephone so I tried to avoid it as well. “You think maybe someone who works there…?”

“I'm afraid that's the only possible explanation.”

“I see,” I repeated uselessly. What I couldn't see is why this wasn't a matter for his superiors at the bank, perhaps even for the police, rather than a private detective who lived several states away.

“There's another part to this I haven't told you,” Nathan said.

“Then why don't you tell me this other part, Nathan.”

Whoever was responsible, he explained, had taken some pains to make my brother look like the culprit. I whistled softly into the mouthpiece.

“That's a problem, all right.”

“Yes it is,” he agreed. “I was wondering, Dev…is there any chance you could come out to Baltimore for a few days? Maybe give me a hand with this?”

I wasn't sure what to say to that. I did a quick mental review of my my workload at the office. Nothing that couldn't wait a few days but…

“Nathan, I don't know a whole hell of a lot about banking. I'm not sure how much help I'd really be in this kind of situation.”

“I've considered that. I still think it would be a benefit to me, your time with Pinkerton's and heading up your own agency. I'd be willing to pay for your travel. You'd be welcome to stay with us. Or I could put you up in a hotel if you'd feel more comfortable there.”

I managed not to drop the phone. So far he'd ponied up for a telegram and a long-distance telephone call. Now he was willing to come across for a train ticket and even a hotel stay? He had to be rattled good. I still wasn't sure what help I could be, but I could remember clearly how many times Nathan had asked for my help in his whole life: This would make exactly once.

“Sure, I can come out if you think it would help. I have to tie up a few loose ends at the office. I could hop a train and be there towards the end of the week if that works.”

“Would you have any objection to flying?” Reflexively, I gripped the phone a little tighter.

“Yeah, sure, I can fly out.”

Nathan asked how long I needed to get my office in order. Hell, if it was this important to him, I could take care of things tomorrow morning and fly out in the afternoon. Nathan told me he'd have a ticket waiting for me at the airport, that he'd telephone my secretary with the particulars tomorrow.

“I guess we're all set then,” I said.

“Please telephone me at the bank if you can't get away for some reason,” he asked. I wrote down the number he gave me on the pad I had ready. “Thanks for calling, Dev. And for coming up on such short notice. I appreciate it.”

“No problem, Nathan. I'll see you tomorrow night.”

I hung up the receiver and went into the kitchen to warm up my coffee. My brother, who hadn't spoken to me since our parents' funeral (nor I to him, to be fair), wanted me to fly up to Baltimore and help him out with what sounded like a serious problem. Serious enough that he was willing to foot the bill for my travel, anyway. And what exactly did he expect of me? Figure out who the real embezzler was? Advise him on how to handle the situation? Or just be there for moral support? If a client walked into my office with a problem like this, I'd get rid of him fast. Sure, I'd give him a few suggestions on where he could go for help, maybe recommend some people, but that'd be it. Maybe that was all Nathan wanted, to have me hear him out in detail and help him work out his next move. Easier to do face to face than over the telephone. More breathing room that way, time to cover all the angles thoroughly.

To hell with it, I thought. All I promised Nathan was that I would show up and listen. If he was expecting more for the money he was putting out, he should have said so.

I walked into the bedroom and took a battered, brown suitcase out of the closet, quickly filling it with enough clothes for three or four days. I'd put some toilet articles in my shaving kit and toss that in tomorrow morning after I dressed for work. Next, I sat down at the kitchen table with a pad and pencil, making some notes about what I'd need to go over with my secretary and one of my operatives before I left. I went to bed early, read some more of my book, and put out the light.

I was sitting at my desk at ten the next morning when I heard a knock and the door opened. A tall young man in a pea coat and cloth cap stood in the doorway, a lazy smile on his face.

“Morning, boss,” he said.

“What say, Jennings?” I smiled back. “Come take a pew. How's the leg?”

He pushed air out through slack lips. “It's fine, Mr. Caine.”

“Glad to hear it.”

Brad Jennings had been working for me for close to a year now. He's one of the most resourceful young men I've ever come across, and I have yet to give him something he can't handle. I tried not to let on how carefully I was watching him as he walked over to the empty chair in front of my desk. Last October, Jennings got himself thrown out of a four-story window doing some work for me, yet for some reason he still wanted to remain in my employ. He'd been without the cane for months now, and try as I might, I couldn't detect even a trace of the limp he'd had for so long. Oh, to have the healing powers of a twenty-four-year-old, I thought.

“Got anything special going on the rest of this week?” I asked.

“Nothing I can't get out of,” he said, his gray-green eyes coming alight under lazy lids.

“I have to leave town for a few days,” I explained. “How'd you like to watch the office for me?”

“Sure thing,” he said, poking a lock of straw-blonde hair back up under his cap. “What do you want me to do?”

“Mostly it involves showing up here in a suit and tie and sitting behind this desk. Introduce yourself to clients as my junior associate, listen to their problems, write down the particulars, tell them I'll get back to them in a few days, and stay out of the liquor cabinet.”

“No sweat,” he grinned. “You keep the good stuff in the safe anyway.”

“If it gets too slow, I have a few things you can run down for me.” I went over my notes and threw him some details, which he wrote down in a small notebook he'd taken to carrying. “Just be sure to let Gail know where you're going and when you'll be back. You can use my car if you want,” I fished out my keys and dropped them on the desk, “but remember, it's for business, not joy-riding. Can do?”

“You know it,” he assured me, picking up the keys.

“Gail will know where I can be reached if anything comes up. I expect to be back by next Monday at the latest. And speaking of Gail,” I nodded toward the closed door to the outer office, “she's a terrific secretary, best I've ever had. She likes it here. She better still be here and still liking it when I get back.” Jennings is a sharp kid and a good one, but he's young, and the last thing I needed was him putting Gail off by trying to boss her around or cozy up to her or something.

“Sure thing, Mr. Caine,” Jennings said, his face serious. “I hear you.”

“Good man.” We settled on a daily fee. There was no need to shake on it; he trusted me.

I grabbed an early lunch – a bowl of soup and a sandwich at the diner I'd taken Ryland to last week – then headed back to my office to pick up my suitcase. Just before heading out the door, I paused and opened the lower right-hand drawer of my desk. Two guns were inside: a .45 and a Colt .32 I sometimes carry, both automatics. Did I really need a gun for this trip? I doubted it, but I tend to look on guns like umbrellas: the surest way not to need one is to have it with you. I favored the Colt. In fact, I'd picked this one up to replace the same model I'd had to ditch last year. I placed in my suitcase and fastened the snaps.

I said farewell to my secretary and walked downstairs to the taxi she'd called. My wristwatch read a quarter past twelve when we climbed onto the auto deck of the Hannibal Bridge. We'd reach Kansas City Municipal Airport in under fifteen minutes or less.

T
he cabbie fetched my suitcase
out of the trunk and I paid him for the ride. He touched his cap, wished me a safe journey, and started looking around for a fare back into town. I picked up my suitcase and walked inside to the T&WA counter. No, I reminded myself, it's just TWA now. Transcontinental Air Transport and Western Air Express merged five years ago, the new company making its headquarters in Kansas City. The merger had been busted up last year in the wake of the Air Mail Scandal, but Transcontinental got to keep the new name.

The man at the counter found the ticket Nathan had reserved for me and took my suitcase. I strolled over to the newsstand and grabbed some newspapers and magazines to read on the flight, then found a bench and looked over the crowd. Mostly businessmen and a few of the idle rich. I'd been to this airport a handful of times, to meet arriving passengers or to tail someone, but I'd never flown out of it. It had been dedicated in 'Twenty-Seven by Charles Lindbergh, along with about every other new airport dedicated that year. Being the first man to fly solo across the Atlantic brought publicity in pretty hefty bags. Not that I begrudged the man for making the most of an impressive and daring accomplishment, but it was a damned shame for him that it's all too easy to draw the wrong kind of attention when you're riding that wave. I was thinking of the kidnapping, of course. They'd made a conviction just last month, but that wouldn't bring Lucky Lindy's boy back.

I killed twenty minutes skimming my papers and watching the foot traffic entering and exiting until the announcement came for my flight. Papers and magazines stuffed under one arm, I made my way with the other passengers out onto the tarmac. Sitting on the ramp, gleaming in the afternoon sun, was the Douglas DC-2 that would take me to Baltimore. It was an impressive-looking ship, all anodized metal from the rounded fuselage to the large wings supporting the twin propellers. I knew from articles I'd read that the cabin was largely soundproofed and otherwise secured against the elements. I climbed up the stairs with the other passengers, smiled back at the uniformed pilot standing inside the hatch to greet us, then found a seat. My elbows fell on padded armrests. Not what I remembered; air travel had gone commercial in a big way in the last five years.

I thought back to my first ride in an airplane almost twenty years ago. My Signal Corps unit was setting up a communications tower somewhere in the south of France. We were due to perform maintenance on another such setup about forty miles away, and my commanding officer got the bright idea that I should travel on ahead with the mail pilot, get a jump on things. The pilot, grinning cruelly at me from under raised goggles, said he'd be happy to give me a lift. I was nineteen years old – nowhere near brave enough to chicken out in front of the others. I grabbed my gear and climbed into the passenger seat of the open-air biplane. The pilot got in behind me, the ground mechanic got the propeller started, and off we went. It was the most exhilarating experience of my life up to that point, in the sense that I was pretty sure I was going to die. Between the engine rattling the fuselage and the wind whipping at the wings – and never forgetting that we were a thousand times heavier than any bird – I spent the better part of an hour grabbing whatever I could hold onto and waiting for my stomach, which always seemed to be a climb or a dive behind. I was tempted to kiss the ground when we landed, but had to settle for a different kind of offering: my breakfast. The pilot graciously gave me a moment's privacy before strolling over to offer a hand on my shoulder, a cigarette, and a winking confession that he'd done the same thing after his first time up.

Flying was better in the Twenties, but not by much. Depending on the route, trains were usually faster. Still, I had to fly maybe half a dozen times for business. The cabins weren't anything like the well-protected enclosure I was sitting in now. They were cold and noisy as hell. Young fellows staggered up and down the seats, doling out blankets and hot coffee from thermoses, and chewing gum to keep your ears from popping. The planes were made mostly of wood, the wings basically glued on. And too many hours flying through wind and rain and ice could dissolve that glue. That's how Notre Dame lost their beloved football coach. He was heading out to Hollywood but only made it as far as Kansas when the Fokker Trimotor he was flying in went down in a field.

Thankfully, more powerful engines had been developed (No, perfected, Dev! Perfected!), engines that could deliver enough thrust to get an all-metal structure off the ground. Modern aircraft like the DC-2 can also fly at much higher altitudes, allowing for a far smoother flight (even if they're now
several
thousand times heavier than any bird). At least that's what the articles said.

I barely had time to glance around at the other dozen passengers (mostly men) when the engines fired, the props made contact, and we were hurtling down the landing strip faster than I'd ever gone before. Pressed back against my seat, I was overwhelmed by the sheer power of the ship, and suddenly we were airborne. I looked out the window and fixed on Liberty Memorial, an intimidating tower that was now a scout camp totem pole and, half a minute later, a spike in the ground. The articles didn't lie about the smoothness, at least – the DC-2 was a far cry from those rickety flying stagecoaches I'd traveled in for Pinkerton's. Once we leveled off and I got tired of staring out the window, I went back to my papers and magazines, relaxing in my seat and all but forgetting that I was thousands of feet above the earth inside a six-ton metal tube.

After various stops for refueling and to let off passengers and take on new ones, we touched down at Logan Field a little after eleven that night. I paused on the tarmac to stretch my back and swing my arms a bit, breathing in the humid night air and feeling the grime of extended travel. A couple of porters were loading our luggage onto a wheeled cart. I pointed out my suitcase to one of them, handed him a dollar, and carried it inside the terminal building. It took me only a few seconds to spot the tall, slender, fair-haired man among the crowd of welcomers. He saw me walking toward him a few seconds later and stepped out in front with his businessman's handshake and his banker's smile.

“Hello, Dev. Welcome to Baltimore.”

“Hello, Nathan. How's the family?”

“All doing great. They're eager to see you.”

We pumped up the chatter a little in an effort to cover the awkwardness. We hadn't spoken in five years, and it takes more than a little glad-handing to offset that. Still, I was suddenly glad I'd come. Nathan was the only family I had left. He'd clasped my forearm briefly with his other hand while we shook – a rare gesture of intimacy for him.

“How was the trip out?” he asked. “Can I help you with your suitcase?”

“No thanks, I've got it. And the trip was fine.”

“Well, then…” he smoothed his hands down the sides of his trousers. “I'm parked just outside.” I followed him out to a maroon-colored Hudson sedan – this year's model and damned roomy. I wouldn't have gone so far as to call it stately, but certainly dignified, and carrying the unmistakable message that the man who drove it was doing all right for himself.

“Nice set of wheels,” I commented.

“You like it? I made the purchase after my promotion came through. Did I tell you they promoted me to–”

“Yes, Nathan, you told me.” I threw my suitcase into the open trunk and he closed the lid, looking up at me with an embarrassed smile. The smile disappeared and he gave me a sober nod.

“Thank you for coming, Dev.”

“Wouldn't miss it.” Whatever exactly “it” turns out to be, I thought.

Conversation was sporadic during the thirty-minute drive to his house. I didn't try any harder than he did; I knew Nathan preferred to concentrate on his driving, especially at night. I sat back and tried to pick out the few landmarks I remembered. Baltimore wasn't my town and I'd barely spent any time here. I did catch sight of the Bromo-Seltzer Tower, the face of the clock lit up against the night sky. I answered the occasional, perfunctory question with drab, colorless answers, telling myself I didn't want to take Nathan's mind off the traffic, but maybe I just wanted to make him work harder. He didn't disappoint. We hadn't been on the road ten minutes when he started in about Kansas City and how did I manage to live in such a lawless, wide-open place like that? Robberies, murders, and what-all going on practically every day? I could picture him scouring the morning paper looking for such tidbits, nodding soberly and filing them away for whenever he might see me. I tried to assure him it really wasn't that bad. There were hardly any Indian attacks these days, maybe one or two a year tops. And those were taken care of pretty handily by the armies of mobsters who walked around carrying Tommy guns in broad daylight. Nathan probably wasn't any surer of how much of a put-on my answers were than I was about how much of a put-on some of his questions were, but neither of us tried narrowing it down.

We entered a nice neighborhood with wide streets and well-kept lawns. Nathan pulled into the driveway of a good-looking, two-story brick house. I got out, helped him with the garage door, fetched my suitcase out of the trunk, and followed him through the backyard gate, down a stone path that led to a cheery back porch. The kitchen light was on and I could see a woman's silhouette through the window shade.

“Look what I found at the airport!” Nathan held the back door open for me and I stepped inside. Marie, wearing a snug, green robe over silk pajamas, walked forward and gave me a welcoming hug. Over her shoulder I could see a small platter of quarter-cut sandwiches and a pot of coffee on the kitchen table.

“Devlin, we're do glad you could come!” She kept her voice low as her husband had done; the children would be asleep upstairs. I'd only met Marie a few times, the last being at the funeral five years ago. She hadn't aged a day. Same pretty, oval face (she hadn't taken her makeup off yet), same shoulder-length auburn hair, same taste in clothes even if it was just lounging wear. The woman kept herself and her house up, no question. She looked up at me, five-foot-five in her slippers, and asked if I was hungry.

“Matter of fact, I am, Marie. Thank you.”

I put my suitcase in the corner and we sat around the table. Marie poured coffee (“Dev takes his black, honey,” Nathan reminded her) as I helped myself to a few of the sandwiches. Marie ate one or two to be sociable and Nathan ate one or two because his wife told him to, complaining that he hadn't been eating enough lately. We chatted awhile, Marie being a particularly solicitous hostess considering the hour. Whether it was because I was family or because she thought I might be able to help her husband out of a jam, I wasn't sure, but she kept the conversation just lively and genuine enough without it feeling forced, and that's a rare gift.

After the meal, Nathan fetched his pipe from the den and invited me out onto the back porch for a smoke while Marie cleared the table. My brother and I sat in the light from the kitchen window (the porch light would draw moths, Nathan explained). He got his pipe going and I helped myself to a cigarette from my case. I noticed the pipe was one of Dad's old briars, and couldn't for the life of me figure out why it peeved me to see Nathan smoking it. I'd never even been a pipe man.

“Well,” Nathan began, “as I mentioned on the telephone last night, I'm facing some serious difficulty at the bank.” He drew at the briar, trying to figure out how he wanted to explain it all.

“You hinted at embezzlement,” I said quietly, trying to help get him started.

“I'm fairly certain that's what it is, all right.”

“How much money are we talking here?”

“Approximately one hundred forty thousand dollars.” I dutifully filled the dramatic pause Nathan offered with a low whistle.

“When did you notice the money was missing?” I asked.

“Well, that's just it. It's not, strictly speaking, missing. The funds are all accounted for, just not as they should be.”

I was starting to feel tired from the trip, especially now that my belly was nice and full. I wouldn't make it through one of Nathan's professorial discourses.

“Nathan, you've lost me already. I told you, I don't know much about banking. I want to help if I can, but can you put this into a few simple sentences an outsider might follow?”

He took a pull at Dad's pipe and did a fairly good job of summing up. Last Friday he was reviewing his files, same as he does every month. Going through loan applications, approvals, payments, balance sheets, what have you. He came across a signatory on one of the processed loans that he didn't remember seeing before, didn't even recognize. He couldn't locate any collaborating documents for this loan, nor for two other such loans he came across also bearing the names of unfamiliar signatories. He was also certain that paperwork was missing from some of the other loans, but when he ran his checks, everything on those loans balanced perfectly.

Nathan discreetly attempted to find out more about the borrowers for the three mystery loans, calling telephone exchanges that didn't match up and trying to verify addresses that likewise didn't. Next, he called up the three different banks holding the accounts to which the loan checks had been deposited. In each case, the account had been closed and the money taken out immediately after the deposited loan checks cleared, no forwarding address left by the customer. Evidently, $140,000 had been loaned out to three small businesses, none of which actually existed.

“Sounds like somebody set this up good,” I said, fishing for another cigarette. “But why do you suspect embezzlement? Your bank couldn't simply have been defrauded by whomever it was?”

Nathan shook his head stubbornly. “I left out details, but suffice it to say that someone in the banking industry, well-acquainted with how we do things, had to have arranged all this. More specifically, it had to have been someone well-acquainted with how my department does things.”